


love like animals (by the throat)

by rocksafella



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Rough play, dutch fails to appreciate Arthur, john has the biggest kink for arthur's bullying, low honor universe, wrasslin'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocksafella/pseuds/rocksafella
Summary: For all Arthur’s pretending, John knew better. Arthur was hardly any better than himself. He seemed to wait around for it, the stupid button-pushing bullshit John came up with to get Arthur’s attention.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 87





	love like animals (by the throat)

**Author's Note:**

> hiya! this is mostly for my boyfriend & his obsession with Arthur & violence, so it's self-indulgent as heck.  
> find me on twitter as tacituskilgcre :)

John is panting so hard his lungs ache. Arthur is no better, their bodies hot to the touch. Sweat slides down Arthur’s temple, down off his jaw onto John in a way that makes him squirm, panting. 

They’d starting this out wrestling, Arthur and John rolling and scrapping in a meadow like teens. John had said something to press Arthur’s buttons and when that hadn’t gotten the reaction he wanted, John had taken a jab at Arthur himself. He couldn’t even remember what it had been, something about his aim slipping in his old age. 

Then Arthur had started to get the better of him, thigh slotting between John’s as his other hand reached his hip, turning John sharply onto his stomach with a low laugh. John knew he was fucked the moment both his arms were gathered into Arthur’s hand, the other sliding up his neck into his hair in a way that bordered on sadistic. 

Whatever he’d said didn’t even matter now, not when Arthur had John pinned like this, one hand fisted in his hair. The other was twisting both of John’s arms painfully behind his back, Arthur mostly using his weight to hold John to the mossy ground. 

“You arrogant little bitch,” Arthur snapped, voice as mean as his pace, cock buried in John’s ass. He’d been kind enough to wrench John’s pants down so they at least stayed free of cum, his cock rubbing painfully against the soft clovers underneath his body. 

When Arthur let a glob of spit fall to John’s face, obscuring one eye, John finally broke his petulant vow of silence. “Fuck you, Morgan, you dumb shit!” He whined, knowing the insult was weak. 

Arthur’s belly-deep laugh was all the humiliation it took for John’s ears to turn red. "Just say the word, Marston." Arthur leaned over him, hand leaving John’s hair to brace on the ground near his head instead. John turned his face into the loamy soil beneath himself and made a broken sound as the new angle had Arthur’s cock ramming against his prostate every other thrust. 

To be fair, it was a foolish idea to antagonize Arthur. At any given moment John had the urge to press every button he could, make Arthur angrier than a bull in a china shop, except John wanted to be the decorative plates and glasses Arthur destroyed. He’d always liked it, the way Arthur’s face betrayed the emotions he couldn’t articulate.

In truth Arthur was gentle, softer than spring thaw. Sometimes John saw it, little glimpses of the Arthur hidden away from prying eyes, especially when he was drawing or sleeping. Something came over him in those moments, or maybe it was more so that Arthur wasn’t worried about anything, focused on his task.

He wasn’t gentle now, though. 

Certainly not with his hips slamming against John’s behind so harshly, he worries there might be bruises later. Arthur’s gun belt is surely leaving little dents in his flesh, although it only makes John bite his lip to think about it. 

John cried out raggedly as Arthur picked his pace up, punishing John every time he pushed his cock in, teasing him every time he slid out, rinse and repeat. “You’re worse than a goddamn bar floozy.” Arthur mumbled, his lips brushing the shell of John’s ear so he shuddered. 

For all Arthur’s pretending, John knew better. Arthur was hardly any better than himself. He seemed to wait around for it, the stupid button-pushing bullshit John came up with to get Arthur’s attention. Like this, in the clovers and lichen, John could pretend he and Arthur’s world was contained to this meadow. 

John is about to call Arthur something scathing when the man pulls away, releasing John’s wrists to put one hand on either of his shoulders, thumbs digging into the muscle. Instead of blurting out a snappy insult, John braces against the ground, knowing what Arthur has in mind. 

John comes untouched, entirely like a bar floozy. He cries out, tears at the corners of his eyes as he gasps into the moss. Arthur makes a rough noise and uses John in a way that is torture, delightful and oversensitive. When he comes it’s in John, hilted deep, lips against the back of his neck. John smells sweet there and Arthur breathes it in greedily. 

The two of them bask in the afterglow, although mostly they’re too exhausted to move. John’s body feels like one big pulse and when Arthur tries to move, John’s ass tightens on him and they both whine, John low and gruff. Arthur pulls away anyway and John doesn’t move a muscle, listening to fabric rustle and metal clink as Arthur tucks himself away. 

A hand smooths up his back, thumb following the subtle bump of his vertebrae. “You okay? Too much?” Arthur sounds like liquid honey and scuffed silk, John wants to wear it like a blanket. 

“You’re a mean motherfucker, Morgan.” 

John quickly decides Arthur’s laugh is an even grander blanket. 

After Arthur helps John carefully back into his pants, fondly patting his hips, they lay in the meadow. Arthur doesn’t hide his dumb grin when John chooses to pillow his head on Arthur’s thighs, so John doesn’t tone down his happy hums and haws when Arthur slides a hand into his hair to rub his scalp. 

John finds his cigarettes, the pack having fallen out sometime before Arthur had pinned him, and lights one. Arthur declines one of his own, the two of them sharing the one until it’s burned down to its filter. John lights another and they share that one too. 

It isn’t until the sun starts to peek through the trees that John knows this bubble has to burst. 

When they return to camp, it’s business as usual. Nobody knows Arthur’s chest is puffed that way because he’s spent the night with John, just like nobody knows the bruises on John’s wrists match Arthur’s grip. They also don’t need to know that John will be awake for hours yet, even when he should be getting as much rest as he still can before the day begins. 

It’s like this because it has to be and John knows that. He knows it even as he watches Arthur disappear into Dutch’s tent, likely summoned for a task. John feels distaste swell in him like nausea, although they feel one in the same. 

Arthur is his whether they boast about it or not, John knows that.


End file.
